Be Careful What You Wish For
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: It's the thought that counts.


Disclaimer: They aren't my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note:** About a year and a half ago, Cheri and I added four stories to the eight we'd already written revolving around the episode "The Birthday Present". We called the whole collection _Aftermath--The Weed Randall Story Cycle_, and added it to volume 3 of the STAR for Brian 'zines. Up till now, that's the only place those four stories have been published, and, honestly, I thought they benefited greatly from the synergy. Thanks to the folks who support the cause, and here's the first bit of that saga:

**Be Careful What You Wish For**

By L. M. Lewis

Mark hadn't even realized that a judge could be _un_-retired, let alone that it could happen on such short notice. It seemed like the wheels of justice could turn pretty damn fast when they wanted to. And now, less then twenty-four hours after he and Sandy Knight had nailed the evidence that should put Weed Randall back in prison for a good long time, and less than _twelve_ hours after Weed's associate had made an ill-conceived assassination attempt on Hardcastle, Mark was rummaging through the judge's closet, looking for a judicial robe.

"Ah-_hah_." He'd finally spotted a swath of black.

Hardcastle stuck his head out from the bathroom. "Found it?"

"Well," McCormick held it up, studying it critically, "yeah, but it must've fallen on the floor. Maybe I should iron it or something."

"Nah," Hardcastle took it from him, gave it a quick glance, then started stuffing it in the duffle on the bed, "it'll just get messed up again."

"Wait a sec." Mark snatched it back impatiently. "Jeez, at least try to be a little neat." He shook it out, folded it, then reached down to put it into the bag. "Oh," he grimaced, "and _that_ shirt." The green parrot number was lying in the bottom of the satchel. "Well, at least you sorta folded it, not that it helps much."

"Hey," Hardcastle protested, "I'll have you know that that's my lucky shirt. Never had a ruling overturned when I wore that shirt."

Mark cocked his head. "Well, then I suppose there's some of us who would call that your _unlucky_ shirt." He stuffed the robe in on top and pulled the zipper shut. "There, that's it. Now, come on, you don't wanna be late." He picked up the bag and gestured toward the door.

"Well, I suppose not," Hardcastle grinned, "but it's not like they're going to start the trial without me."

00000

Mark had half-expected to be up in the judge's old courtroom on the third floor. He'd been steeling himself for that, wondering what it would feel like, to have helped put someone else at that defendant's table. But they'd been shown into another section of the building entirely, and from there to a nearly empty courtroom—bailiff, court reporter, and judge, a guy named Jenkins who Mark had met once or twice.

Hardcastle was grinning. There was a handshake and a slap on the back from his old colleague.

"Never thought I'd get to do this for _you_," Jenkins grinned right back at him.

And then the grins were gone from both men, and Jenkins was leading him through an oath—not that Hardcase appeared to need much coaching; he sounded like he could have rattled the whole thing off verbatim—and there was something in his tone that gave it a ring of sincerity that was positively _judicial._

Then another bailiff took over as their escort, with Hardcastle back to grinning. Mark had to smile; the man looked so delighted. _It's his element._ The smile went a little flat. _It's been a year and a half. He said he missed it. Maybe he just didn't realize how much_.

They were ushered through the newer part of the courthouse complex, and outside, to something their guide euphemistically referred to as "an annex" but which looked more like a badly assembled double-wide. Mark tried not to grimace. But Hardcastle didn't miss a beat, and even managed to make it sound like a tribute to the immutability of the criminal justice process.

McCormick did his best to crack wise.

The moment passed, with only the slightest concession to disappointment by the judge. Mark felt a tiny flicker of relief. Maybe this would throw some cold water on the roseate glow of nostalgia that had seemed to come over the man since he'd heard the news of his reinstatement the day before.

_No_, he squashed that thought,_ this isn't right. They ought to have given him a proper courtroom._ He fumed silently, but kept up his end of the operation. He thought maybe the smart remarks would help relieve his own nagging worry as well, that Hardcastle really _was_ back in his element, and that this interim position could easily evolve into a long-term one. Lord knew the place looked like it could use him.

_And if they did reappoint him, where would __you__ be?_

_Well, there's always the hedges._

Sandy was saying something vaguely insulting. After three days, Mark was learning to tune him out, but this time his fear was so close to the surface that he sniped back.

And Hardcastle was already gone, off into the courtroom. Mark felt like he ought to have said something. _Wished him luck, whatever._

_That's stupid. He's done this thousands of times. Ten minutes and it'll all be over._

_I just hope he doesn't enjoy it __too__ much._

He shook his head sharply and squashed that thought, too, as he entered the courtroom. _You're just retiring another file, and once it's done, he'll come back to being the Lone Ranger again._

_You hope._


End file.
